“You’re paranoid.”
“I’m alive.”
She let out a breath. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Whatever. Just make sure you have two changes of clothes and shoes you can run in. The sort of stuff you could wear on a dig or at the beach. Are you on birth control?”
She blinked. “Ah, no.”
“Good. Then we don’t have to worry about getting you meds.”
“I can live without vitamins, but a toothbrush would be very nice.”
“No problem. We’ll pick them up along with a new stock of party hats.”
Lina bit back a smile. “Colors and flavors?”
He gave her a hot sidelong look. “Want to pick them out?”
She blushed, laughed, and shook her head.
With a last check around the parking lot, Hunter followed Lina into the store. His eyes were never still, but he didn’t find anything that set off his internal radar. They hadn’t been followed past the edge of Houston and nobody seemed interested in them now.
Once in the store, Lina quickly found what she needed. Even if she’d been the shopping kind of woman, this wasn’t a place she would have lingered. But shopping was something she did when she had to, with a list in hand. Like jaguars were climax predators, she was a climax shopper; she knew what she needed, she took it when she saw it, and that was that. The only thing she tried on was a pair of all-purpose athletic shoes. She threw in socks and a pair of flip-flops and took her armload back to where Hunter waited, watching other shoppers.
“Your turn,” she said.
He went through the men’s department with an efficiency that spoke of long experience with unexpected trips and living off the land. His last selection was a cheap sports duffel that could hold everything the two of them had selected. He paid for the lot at one of the checkout stands. As soon as they were in the parking lot, he put everything into the duffel and headed for the market.
“Get what you need. I’ll get snacks, water, and trail food. And party hats.” He smiled at her. “We’ll change in the gas-station restrooms after I get fuel.”
She looked startled. “We aren’t going back to your uncle’s house?”
“Depends on Crutchfeldt.”
Lina tilted her head and watched him with unblinking, bittersweet-chocolate eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“If he gives us a good lead, we’ll work it wherever it goes,” Hunter said. “If somebody picks up our trail, we’re on the next plane to Cozumel. Keeping you safe is my first priority. Finding who’s after you is second.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GROUND FOR BUILDING ON SOUTH PADRE ISLAND WAS scarce—protected wetlands thrived on one side and the ocean on the other. Simon Crutchfeldt’s house was built on enough land for a small subdivision. The two-story faux Georgian clashed with the wild tangles of scrubland that surrounded all but the ocean side of the estate. The manicured lawn looked as improbable as big boobs on a skinny woman. The tall, showy rows of sabal palms lining the approach and clumped artfully around the house looked plastic.
In north Houston, the estate would have been right at home. On Padre, it was slightly ridiculous.
“Sometimes money doesn’t talk,” Lina said. “It screams.”
Hunter drove up the long drive and parked his Jeep in an area set aside for guests. Beyond a waist-high hedge of gardenias there was a pool set in several acres of landscaping and tilework. Although it was just after nine, their host had told them to look for him there.
“I’m along for the ride,” Hunter said, turning off the Jeep and pocketing the key. “You just pursue your area of interest and don’t pay attention to Mr. Harold Kerrigan. That’s me.”
“Is Mr. Kerrigan the strong, silent type?” she asked, smiling.
“Yeah. But if I start coming on like a middleman for a collector with an agenda, you be your usual shocked, upright academic self. I’m just a guy you’ve dated once or twice and you’re really pissed off. That way, if the ivory tower ever gets wind of this charade, you’ll be covered.”
“You make me sound like a prig.”
“Caesar’s wife, sweetheart. ‘Prig’ is the first word in the job description.”
Lina didn’t like it, but said nothing. Hunter was hardly the first person to notice her determined respectability in all things archaeological.
They climbed out of the Jeep and headed toward the pool area. Like everything else about the estate, the pool was oversize, made of hand-set tiles, and surrounded by greenery more suitable to Hawaii than Padre. Tropical flowers made the air dense with perfume.
“Mr. Crutchfeldt has never heard of too much of a good thing,” Hunter said in a low voice. “Including the man himself.”
A huge human lump of white and tan lay on a mahogany chaise along the turquoise pool. He wore white cotton shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, also cotton. The buttons had been undone over his stomach, revealing a swath of tanned and hirsute flesh.
“Carpet doesn’t match the drapes,” Hunter muttered.
Lina looked from the body bristling with gray hair to the very dark hair on Crutchfeldt’s head. His Panama hat was perched rakishly in a style more suited to Indiana Jones than Indy’s father. Crutchfeldt was a thoroughly senior citizen chasing a youth he was never going to catch.
“Good morning,” Crutchfeldt said, rising and buttoning his shirt. He had the voice of a man who liked to talk, supple and able to go for hours without needing a break. “Lina, it’s so good to finally meet you in the flesh. Your mother talks often about your expertise.” His big hands engulfed hers. “And who is your…friend?”
Lina introduced “Harold Kerrigan” while trying to get her hands back without being insulting about it. Despite the heat of the day, Crutchfeldt’s hands were cool, almost clammy. She wondered if he had some kind of circulatory problem. It could explain why he spent so much time in the sun.
“It’s good of you to interrupt your day to show us your collection,” Lina said, tucking her hands in the pockets of her cargo shorts.
“Oh, my pleasure, dear. It’s always nice to share conversation with someone who can appreciate the, ah, peculiarities of my little hobby.” Crutchfeldt’s smile was as oversize as he was.
Hunter smiled back amiably. He’d met Crutchfeldt’s type before, big and overbearing, teeth like an all-white concert piano’s keyboard. Some of those men had been vain and stupid. Crutchfeldt might be vain, but he wasn’t stupid. His blue eyes watched the world with sharp, predatory intelligence.
“I’m guessing that you both would prefer to chat inside, yes? One man’s paradise is another’s overheated hell. Follow me, if you please.”
Crutchfeldt didn’t wait for their agreement. He led them at a brisk pace up a wide, paved walkway toward large double doors hanging open to the sun and heat.
The entryway was dry and cool, illuminated only by indirect sunlight and a row of small windows just beneath the line of the ceiling. Pottery was arrayed on pedestals along either side of the gallery-size hallway.
Lina didn’t need the discreet brass plates to know that the artifacts were pre-Columbian, Maya, mostly of highland origin, and worthy of a wing in anyone’s museum. The intricacy and balance of the blackware vases were riveting. Each one told a story of a king’s rise and fall, glyphs highlighted in red pigment leading from one to another to yet another, whispering of a past beyond her reach. But not beyond her yearning.
Lina kept falling farther and farther behind as Crutchfeldt led the way down the hall. The quality of the artifacts fascinated her. The thought of sunlight from the open doors and high windows accidentally touching them made her wince inside.
And yet, the very lack of pomp and boundaries made the artifacts all the more remarkable. They existed as they had been created to be, nothing between the eye and the object.
